Fifty Shades of The Selection Games
by OneManParade
Summary: Katniss Everdeen has grown up with the Hunger Games. Four years ago, the winner of the 69th Hunger Games (none other than Christian Grey) challenged President Snow to a democratic vote and won the Election. He ended the Hunger Games, and for a while, all of Panem thought they were safe, until he introduced The Selection. Will Katniss survive the aristocratic capitol?
1. Part 1: Morning

**I feel like this goes without saying, but none of these characters are mine. This Story is like a Hunger Games meets The Selection meets Fifty Shades of Grey.**

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have wanted to get ready early, and mother is probably helping her. Of course, she did. This is the day of The Selection.  
I prop myself up on one elbow. The battery powered light in the bedroom flickers as my twin sister, Prim, sitting with her shoulders straight, is letting my mother wax the tips of her hair so that it will hold a curl. Prim's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother, the spitting image just 20 years in the future. Or so they tell me.  
Sitting at Prim's feet, guarding her, is the world's ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me. Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. My mother got rid of the vermin, and he's a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat. Now, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. So, I guess it turned out okay.  
I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. My mother and sister don't even spare a glance. I pull on trousers, and a shirt. In contrast to my sister's shining blonde hair, I tuck my own tangled, dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Prim's gift to me on Selection Day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour, but today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The Selection isn't until two. May as well sleep in. If you can...  
Enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods like packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears, but since we're lucky to even get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually safe to touch. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years.  
As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow. But there's also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. I'm 20 now, and I still wake up screaming for him to run.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the Capitol. I avoid discussing tricky topics now. Like the original Hunger Games, or what the eventually evolved into. The sick compromise that we now call The Selection.  
The Hunger Games were a morbid and brutal competition which took place annually for 69 years. Every year, one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 were selected from each of the twelve districts as tributes who would train for a week and then were sent into an outdoor arena to fight to the death. Four years ago, at the announcing of the 70th Hunger Games, the winner of the 69th Hunger Games publicly challenged the President to allow the districts to vote for a new leader, and cast himself as a worthy opponent.  
We all thought he would disappear in the night, but the opposite happened. President Snow died and our new President by default, became Mr. Grey the champion of the 69th hunger games, who won the games with cunning and ferocious sadism in a mere matter of days. The first thing he did was abolish the hunger games. And for a year, we thought we were finally safe. We were wrong.

Four years ago, my sister got her first Selection letter. The first part of the selection process is an application. Select males and females age 16 - 21 are sent applications to fill out and return. It doesn't matter if you're single, and it doesn't matter if you want to. Participation is mandatory. At first, we thought the selection was an honorary process in which talented, attractive young men and women from the districts were given the opportunity to succeed in the capitol. 3 Girls (on odd years) or Boys (on even years) from Each District are Selected to go to the capitol and be taught the ways of "New Panem" and compete for a spot among the 12. It was soon evident that girls and boys who did not make the cut never came home and if they were from one of our poorer districts, they were more or less sold to the highest bidder to be exotic concubines or worse. However, the twelve who pass the Selection were given a grand tour of the Districts and a place in the capitol where they take a permanent residence with a sizable dowry or trust. Every other year, the female selection allows the selected 12 to compete for the hand of the President, but none have been chose. There are dark rumors surrounding why he will not choose a wife. He will have the opportunity to choose this year, as it is another year of girls.

And this year, both my twin sister and I received applications, but I burned mine.


	2. Part 1: The Woods

In the woods waits the only person who really knows me. Gale. I can feel the my face relaxing into a smile, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place; a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes.  
"Hey, Catnip," says Gale. My real name is Katniss, but when I first told him, thought I'd said Catnip. The nickname stuck.  
"Look what I shot," Gale holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow, and hold it my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth water.  
"Prim left us cheese." I pull it out. His expression brightens at the treat.  
"Thank you, Prim." Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent as he mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to read out the names at the Selection. "I almost forgot! Happy Selection Day!" He picks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. "And may the odds - " He tosses a berry in a high arc toward me. I catch it in my mouth.  
" - be ever in your favor!" I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.

I watch as Gale pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair, olive skin, we even have the same gray eyes. But we're not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way. That's why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and blue eyes, always look out of place.  
"We could do it, you know" I say gauging his silence as we eat our bread and cheese.  
"What?" Gale asks.  
"Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," I say, locking eyes with him. "I know it sounds crazy." Gale shakes his head. I grasp his hand "But we could try"  
"If we didn't have so many kids, I would consider it" he says.

They're not our kids, of course. But they might as well be. Gale's two little brothers and a sister. And even though we are the same age, Prim. She wouldn't last a day out here in the woods. And you may as well throw in our mothers, too, because how would they live without us?

"But we do." He says, sternly, almost scolding. The conversation feels all wrong. How could he not want to leave here? I know Gale is devoted to his family. And I know, realistically, we can't leave. But why can't we talk about it? Why can't we pretend, if only for a moment that we have a choice? I was so sure Gale would be selected for the boys. He is handsome, and built but now he is too old. And I think he's glad for it. I can see in his eyes, that he would rather die than run away from here. I will have to go alone. Tonight. After Prim is selected, there will be nothing left for me here anyway.  
"Fine," I say. "I'll drop it."

We spend the rest of the morning in silence. We make out well. We have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries to trade at the Hob. When we finally leave the market, Gale and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each. I look up to find him watching me.  
"See you in the square?" I finally say.  
"So, you're not running yet then?" He knows me too well.  
"Not yet."


	3. Part 1: The Selection

At home, I find my mother and sister are ready to go. My mother wears a fine dress from her apothecary days. And Prim is in a skirt and blouse buttoned all the way to the top. She looks older than me somehow, with her severe cheekbones and hair cascading around her face and shoulders and down her back. _Angelic_ I think as I brush past to find A tub of warm water waiting for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own dresses for me. It's soft and blue. Though prim is my twin, I'm not the same kind of pretty. And I can tell my mother gave me this dress for a reason. Where prim is soft and petite, I am lean a muscled. The neckline is modest, but the rest of the dress clings to me like it's wet showing the curves I tend to otherwise hide. I give my mother an "I know what you're doing" look, but she shrugs her innocence. I look at Prim and find her radiating excitement. Briefly, I wonder how two sisters; twins, can be so different.

"You look beautiful," says Prim in a hushed voice.

"And nothing like myself," I say. I hug her, because somehow, I know she will be selected. _How do I protect her?_ Our 2nd selection. Prim's only grown more beautiful and warm. I saw the picture she sent back with her selection letter; smiling like she had no idea how bad the world was. But, _she has no idea_ , I remind myself.

When my father died, I made sure my mother and Prim never faced the hunger and pain that so many in The Seam do. For a moment, I live in my sister's ignorance, imagining that the selection isn't a poorly disguised prostitution ploy and truly a ticket to a better life in The Capitol. And then I think about Johanna Mason, from the first selection who snapped on live broadcast and stabbed her "companion" to never be seen again. I come back to my senses.

At one o'clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death's door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned. It's too bad, really, that they hold The Selection in the square — one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant. The square's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in slowly murmuring to each other about who the prospective selected girls will be this year. A town girl named "Madge" is mentioned frequently. She's the Mayor's Daughter. A quiet girl I knew from school. Today, she's dressed in all white with charcoal lining her eyes and her hair tied up in a pink ribbon. She looks pretty, like Prim, in that soft angelic way. The Selection is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. And one by one all the eligible young women line up in front. It reminds me of when we had assembly in school. I want to laugh and the spectacle. Some girls have done their best to create attire that resembles the clothing people wear in the capitol. The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's quite large, but not enough to hold District 12's population of about eight thousand. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state.

Through the crowd, I spot Gale looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As Selections go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor. All these girls look ridiculously hopeful. I look to Prim who is gazing at the scroll sitting solemnly in the center of the table standing on the stage before us, with a blood red ribbon tied delicately around it. She looks intoxicated by the dream of a better life. And suddenly I am thinking of the meadow and what a better life would mean to me. And maybe Gale's thinking the same thing, because his face darkens and he turns away.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read the new story of Panem from war, to the hunger games, to the selection. An hour drones on and he ends the speech with a pained glance at his daughter Madge who, unlike Prim, looks terrified. And now, it's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always did during the hunger games.

"Ladies first!" she chuckles and crosses to the table with the solitary scroll sitting on it. She reaches down and makes a show of slowly unrolling the parchment as she slowly walks back to the microphone and cameras. The crowd draws in a collective breath, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not Prim, thinking of all the ways the capitol will tell us she's gone missing if she doesn't make the first cut. Effie Trinket looks into the the camera, smooths the parchment of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not Prim.

It's me.


End file.
